


Visions of Rage

by teasoni



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Angst, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, gotta get all this gay outta my system u know, idk man i just had to do something
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-27
Updated: 2019-01-27
Packaged: 2019-10-17 14:04:56
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17561831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/teasoni/pseuds/teasoni
Summary: “I would not change you,” Fingon told him. He pressed Maedhros’s face between his fingers and fixed his eyes upon those before him: flinty and as dark as a storm. “For you, here, with your scars and your ugliness, are to me even more astounding than you were before. Maitimo,” and here he pressed a kiss to the corner of Maedhros’s mouth, desperate and gasping, and Maedhros turned his face towards it with a hunger to match. “I will have you, always. So long as you are bound to the earth, I shall have you.”





	Visions of Rage

**Author's Note:**

> i just.......................had to do something??? i'm feeling too many things for these two but my ability to write is utterly constipated :(

Fingon still saw it in his dreams.

Visions of Maedhros as he swung upon the face of Thangorodrim his wrist shackled and torn, his face as gaunt and as lifeless as a corpse; for the first time since the kinslaying at Alqualondë had Fingon felt the fingers of terror grip his bones, and when Maedhros had let forth a cry of such anguish Fingon truly believed he would die. His heart turned to ice and shattered in his chest.

He tried hard not to think of it. Maedhros was not the worst thing Fingon had witnessed on his plight through Angband, though Morgoth’s mists meant he could see very little; it was not the worst, no, but to Fingon it was the greatest horror he could have ever imagined. All the rage he had harboured since Fëanor had burned the ships at Losgar – the rage that had warmed him against the blistering winds of the Helcaraxë – evaporated like steam off the sea. All he knew, staring up at Maedhros with his arrow trained against his breast, was love. Horrible, terrifying love.

“Findekáno.”

Even now that voice still stirred something deep within his breast. Terror, perhaps. Sorrow. Despair. The gnawing shame that he had not delivered Maedhros from his torment sooner.

“Findekáno!”

Fingon, drawn from the dull haze of his own imaginings, opened his eyes to see Maedhros staring at him from across the room. He stood tall even though his shoulders were stooped, and he cradled his stumped wrist against his body as though to hide it; such was Maedhros, now. Fingon still remembered when he was prideful. No longer was he so.

“Forgive me,” Fingon said. “I was lost in thought.”

Maedhros’s lips parted to speak, but he thought the better of it, and settled back against the wall. There were shadows there; shadows that would hide him, and these days Maedhros always seemed wont to conceal himself, but would never admit he was afraid. And so Fingon, tired of Maedhros’s flightiness, held out a hand to him.

“Come here,” he said, then, his voice scarcely more than a murmur. “Come into the light. I would see you.”

The moment Maedhros stepped into the light he glowed with all the brilliance of forge-fire and starlight, and for a moment Fingon was without word or thought, so entranced was he in the rageful beauty of Maedhros, son of Fëanor. He approached the place where Fingon sat, and his eyes were flinty as he stared, but never once did they wander from Fingon’s face. And then when Maedhros reached him, and the long skirts of his tunic swallowed Fingon’s knees in their swathes, he reached out to take the hand that was offered – but he could not.

For his hand was missing, clove above the wrist. When Maedhros remembered he shuddered and jerked backwards, but Fingon was swift to follow, and seized the sensitive stub of his arm; Maedhros cried out, an awful and echoing sound, and in his eyes Fingon saw the flash of a memory of Angband. Fingon released him and recoiled, loath that he should have ever brought such memories to the surface.

“Maitimo –,”

“I will not change,” Maedhros said. His words fell as cold and stiff as steel upon Fingon. “I will not be the same, FInno, no matter how much you may hope.” As he spoke his face contorted with pain, though pain of the body or of the heart Fingon was not certain.

“And I do not want you to!” Fingon’s reply was hot and rash, perhaps, but he could not fight down the swelling of his heart in anger and in shame. He reached towards his cousin once more and took him by his arms, drawing him in close until Fingon could once more smell the lingering breaths of brimstone upon him. “For what you are now is… you. Still. No matter what torment you may have endured, or what matters that may have changed within you, you are still you. _Maedhros._ ” The name sung like silver upon his tongue, but hotter, bitterer.

“Finno,” Maedhros murmured and brought his face to Fingon’s gleaming braids; there he pressed his face against them, remembering the rasp of those golden ribbons, of those silver beads. And even still did Fingon smell like yew and the white sands of Aman’s beaches, though they had not seen those shores for many years, and would likely never see them again. “Oh, Finno –,”

Through his skin Fingon could feel the pain. For Maedhros still endured torment, even though he was safe and far from the gates of Angband. Each night would he wake in cold sweat, the ringing of iron and hellfire still echoing through his bones. His torture was a part of him, as much as his fingers or his toes, and Fingon _knew_ that.

“I would not change you,” Fingon told him. He pressed Maedhros’s face between his fingers and fixed his eyes upon those before him: flinty and as dark as a storm. “For you, here, with your scars and your ugliness, are to me even more astounding than you were before. Maitimo,” and here he pressed a kiss to the corner of Maedhros’s mouth, desperate and gasping, and Maedhros turned his face towards it with a hunger to match. “I will have you, always. So long as you are bound to the earth, I shall have you.”

Maedhros’s hand found the soft silks of Fingon’s robes and tore at them with a fury that neither one had been expecting; Fingon drew a breath of surprise along Maedhros’s cheekbone and felt a spark light deep in his belly. One hand anchored itself at the back of Maedhros’s neck and the other found the dip of his back, fingers tracing over the bronze and silver belts that held his clothes in place.

“I told my father not to burn the ships,” Maedhros rasped as he pushed Fingon back down into his chait and pushed a leg up between his knees. Fury shone in his eyes and he looked more alive than Fingon had yet seen him, and he sat there stunned, unable to comprehend such beauty, such terror, such love. “I told him we must ferry your people next, but he – he did not _listen._ ” His hand grappled at Fingon’s tunic, but he was clumsy, and Fingon took his wrist and kissed his palm, holding it to his cheek. With his other hand he drew Maedhros into his lap, until he sat astride his thigh, the light falling across his hair and setting the room ablaze.

He had told Fingon this before, of course; Fingon’s heart never failed to warm whenever Maedhros brought it up, however, and so he never stopped him from doing so. Fingon drew Maedhros back to him and kissed him again, this time soundly upon his mouth, and Maehdros let out a sigh as sweet as a maiden’s.

“You have been afraid to come to me,” Fingon murmured against his lips; Maedhros’s tongue darted out and touched at his lower lip, begging entrance, which Fingon gladly granted. “Afraid I would not take you.”

“There are many fairer than I,” Maedhros replied, his words just as warped by kiss after kiss. His fingers tangled in Fingon’s golden braids and he loosed them, strand by strand, until he could take Fingon’s dark hair by the fistful and pull his head backward, pressing his hot mouth to his neck. And Fingon groaned, a sound that rumbled deep from within his chest, and shifted Maedhros upon his knee. “Both in face and in deed.”

Fingon laughed. “The sons of Fëanor are indeed foolish,” he mused, carding his own hand through Maedhros’s hair, scratching his nails against the back of his neck until he fancied he could hear Maedhros _purr._ “If… if you for a moment believed I would desire somebody above you.”

Maedhros drew back, then, and licked at his teeth. Fingon’s stomach lurched with desire at the sight of it. “The only person I desire above me,” he whispered, breath hot against Fingon’s ear. “Is you, cousin.”

Indeed it seemed that having two hands was far more efficient than having just one; Fingon freed Maedhros from his clothes as quickly as he was able, admiring his long limbs and the gentle slope of his body, his form trained by centuries working the forge. For Maedhros was taller than him, and fairer in face, lean like his mother and limber like his father. Fingon was denser, his muscles more tightly coiled, and yet Maedhros keened and swooned beneath his skilful touch even despite all his self-import.

Fingon rocked Maedhros on his knee and Maedhros, his face and neck flushed pink as the sunrise, pushed his entire body down against it. Already could Fingon see the desire straining against his breeches, and his own lust lanced violent up through his body until he could barely stand it.

“I must take you,” he rasped against Maedhros’s throat. “I must, right now –,” And Maedhros, rather than give a reply of his own, clutched at Fingon and rocked against his body until he could do naught else but shudder and moan.

And so Fingon took him, Maedhros spread warm and pliable in his lap, right in his chair in an out-of-the-way chamber deep within his fortress. He pressed his hands to Maedhros’s chest, and lathed his tongue upon each scar and wound, and held his face to Maedhros’s hair as it blazed in the light of the sun. “I love you,” Fingon would sing, his voice strained and high, over and over. “I love you, I love you!”

All Maedhros could do was weep, because for him the darkness was still to near; but with Fingon he could see slivers of light, and knew that so long as Fingon was by his side with his hand steady upon his back, it would be well. Even if their lives were rent apart, and even if they were doomed by Fëanor’s oath, they would persevere together. And in Mandos’s halls they would dwell one day, free of all torment.


End file.
